


We're Not What We've Seen

by turnofthesentry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Class Issues, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Introspection, M/M, POV Alternating, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnofthesentry/pseuds/turnofthesentry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war the Malfoys are in hiding: against his wishes Draco has been instructed to seek solace somewhere safe. Meanwhile, Neville Longbottom is battling insecurity over not killing his parents' torturer. Even after seven years of knowing each other, it's actually harder accepting your enemies than standing up to your friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Not What We've Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful [Terra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/terra) for beta-ing this for me. Also, there may be minor errors here and there with regard to canon-or-time-specific details: I caught all I could but some things inevitably may have slipped by. Don't judge me for it!! Warning for some hateful (Death Eater) rhetoric since I can't tag for it.

_Luna,_

 _How have you been?_

 _Gran and I have been getting on fine. Since the war has ended I've been considering Auror training, everybody has. Funny, isn't it? There are rumors that the qualifications may be altered due to recent circumstances, I believe that--_

Neville's quill abruptly scratched the parchment, dotting a blob of ink below his last word. He'd thought he'd heard a noise that had pulled his concentration from his letter, but after a few moments of waiting, he heard nothing. He was re-dipping his quill when the sound repeated: a frantic rapping on the door.

"I'll get it, Gran," Neville said immediately, standing from his desk. He didn't know who it would be, but he always tried to get the door before his grandmother did, out of habit. She could be extremely unpleasant to unexpected visitors.

Unexpected visitors, indeed.

He pulled the door open and he was greeted by the pale, harried looking face of Draco Malfoy standing on his porch. His hair was mussed slightly as if it hadn't known proper care and he was breathing hard, looking toward Neville expectantly. Neville, for his part, was so surprised he did nothing at first except blink.

Malfoy was still there each time Neville's eyes re-opened -- Neville tried once more to banish him from his sight, but not only was Malfoy standing in front of him still a reality, he was a reality that was looking increasingly more impatient.

"Well, Longbottom, can I come inside?"

"Why? What's--" Neville frowned, closing the door a couple of inches more so that Malfoy couldn't shove his way in. "What's the matter?"

Draco pressed his hand to the door. His nose wrinkled in annoyance, possibly embarrassment. "I need a place to stay. Just temporarily. My mother and father don't know I'm here--"

"Why are you here?" Neville held his ground, voice a little firmer. "What do you want from me? I won't let you involve me or Gran with whoever it is your family is running from."

There was a hint of accusation in his tone, and Draco lips tightened slightly in response. He hit his hand on the door again.

"I have nowhere else to go!" He said, angrily. "My parents don't have anyone that--" He stiffed his shoulders, withdrawing his hand to shove it -- along with its twin -- deep into his worn robe pockets. "They're figuring out who they can get back into contact with. They wanted me safe and told me to find a friend to stay with."

And, Neville wondered, where did the logic travel from there to the Longbottom's doorstep? Had Draco really no other people to ask? _Actual_ friends? Neville retained his skepticism, because he didn't want to allow himself a pang of sympathy. Not for Malfoy.

"I suppose you'll have to keep looking, then," said Neville, shrinking behind the door some more to create distance. He had meant what he said; Neville had no idea what connection the Malfoys might still have to any Death Eaters still living, and no idea what the Death Eaters -- or ex-Death Eaters -- were getting up to since You-Know-Who had been defeated. Neville wasn't naive enough to think that because the head of the beast was gone that the rest of the body would die immediately. He didn't want the wrath of angry dark wizards on his family -- not again.

"Just a week, I swear I'll find somewhere else by then," Malfoy hissed. He looked desperate, and perhaps bitter that he'd been sent away for his own protection; Neville didn't know if it was because his parents thought him too delicate for their life ahead or if it was because he hadn't wanted to separate from them. "I can't go back. They'll go absolutely mad."

"Gran would go mad if she knew I was letting a Death Eater in."

"I'm not -- for Merlin's _sake_ , Longbottom." Draco ran a hand through his hair. "You're wrong about me."

"Son of a Death Eater, then," Neville amended. "You're still a bully, and a--"

"Is it only fat, pathetic crybabies that are allowed to grow up, then? Is that it?" Draco spat. "Because where I'm standing, I've come a lot further than you have since we were first years. You don't know the _half_ of what I've been through."

Neville's eyes narrowed, though his hand relaxed its grip on the door. He opened the door for Draco without fully comprehending why.

"My room's up the stairs. I want to talk with you before we make any agreements."

✻

Draco's face burned with fury and shame as he mounted the stairs in the Longbottom house. He hated that he was here. He hated that he'd thought of no where else to go. He'd ticked off the names one by one in his head: anyone from Slytherin was out. Death Eater families weren't safe to stay with while his family lay low, and they didn't trust the other families not to give Draco up, not even the Parkinsons. Potter and Weasley were almost worse; even had they not been blood traitors, they were far too connected to the Ministry of Magic for the Malfoys to be comfortable with before they knew if they were to be tried (a near certainty) or not. Defected Death Eaters were still deemed dangerous. Granger was a mudblood, and Draco would sooner swallow glass than ask her for a favor.

Longbottom, however, felt almost _more_ shameful. Yet he was a pureblood, and he was the one schoolmate that came to mind Draco didn't fancy would immediately try to turn him in. Longbottom was supposed to be a real pushover, wasn't he? Draco had assumed old habits would die hard, in spite of Neville's actions that past year.

Photographs on the walls murmured suspiciously to one another as Draco passed, and he shot them sour looks as he went. "I don't want to be here anymore than you want me to be," he snapped at them, before hiding himself in Neville's room.

He definitely didn't want to be here, Draco thought again as he slouched around the room, sneering at the decor. He didn't care if their lives would be difficult for a few months -- he'd _wanted_ to stay with his family. They had finally been together, free of baggage, almost happy. But they insisted Draco protect himself foremost.

He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

"Malfoy?" Longbottom's voice came from the doorway, and Draco turned. "Gran doesn't know you're here yet. I haven't agreed to anything... I still don't trust you."

"Of course you don't." Draco circled the room, eyes glancing over the letter on Neville's desk. "Don't expect that any friend of Potter's would."

"Where's your wand?" Neville asked warily. Draco slid Narcissa's wand from his robe pocket.

"It's my mum's. I don't have my own anymore." He didn't want to relinquish it, but he knew that was what Longbottom wanted him to do. So he could _trust_ him. The thought made Draco sick. He re-pocketed it before such a demand was made, but to his surprise Longbottom merely sat down on his bed, watching Draco carefully.

"What did you mean when you said you grew up? You've always been horrible," he said, then added: "to me, and to Harry, and all of us. I don't think I can help anyone that might bring their cronies back to make things miserable again."

"I don't have any 'cronies', you idiot." Malfoy scowled at the floor, leaning against the wall. "I don't have anyone. I don't have any _thing_. Are you mad, Longbottom? Who on Earth am I going to summon here? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm at _your house_. Don't you think I'd be with Blaise Zabini or -- well, _anyone_ else right now if I was _anything_ but desperate?"

Neville's eyebrows lowered, but his expression seemed to soften slightly. At least, Draco thought, he looked like he believed him, which was a good enough start. It was a laugh, thinking Draco would be here by choice. Why on Earth would he willingly spend time with Neville Longbottom?

His eyes fell to that letter again.

✻

"A week," Neville said, fidgeting his leg nervously in place. "That's what you said, wasn't it? That's all. A week at most."

"At most," Malfoy agreed in a monotone. Neville nodded firmly. He felt a lot smaller here, sitting in his room with Malfoy compared to how he'd felt at Hogwarts, the sword of Gryffindor in hand slicing through the air. He didn't remember the last time they'd been alone together since their first year at Hogwarts in the Forbidden Forest.

Touching his thumbs together, Neville reminded himself of what he'd once been told: he was worth twelve of Malfoy. He repeated it in his mind like a mantra, and childish though it was, it did help slightly. He couldn't say it out loud, of course, without Malfoy laughing. Still, he sat up straighter, broad shoulders settling into his reignited confidence.

"Where do you reckon you'll go after that?"

"How should I know? I'll figure it out." Malfoy was glaring at nowhere in particular, seemingly loathe to look Neville in the face. "You guys aren't the only purebloods still around."

"Oh, so that's it, then?"

Neville didn't know why he was still thinking of their first year. He remembered Malfoy's hands on him in the Forest, startling him bad enough to send distress sparks into the air, the Leg-Locker curse Malfoy'd "practiced" on him. As a first year Neville had sometimes wept over it, wondering _why me? Why always me?_ as he feared Malfoy and his friends' vicious bullying almost as much as he'd feared Professor Snape's. He'd known it was because he was a pushover.

Was that what was happening again?

"Well," Malfoy began, "a pureblood who won't send me packing to the Ministry straight off. I knew that you'd have, er. Compassion. You always were… _understanding_ that way, Longbottom."

Despite Malfoy's careful words, Neville could tell he was being mocked. His cheeks burned and he looked shamefully at his hands. Was he doing the right thing, the compassionate thing, as he had originally thought (until the word had crossed Malfoy's lips) or was he being used again?

Was the bullying finally coming full circle? If Malfoy tried to hex him Neville knew he could deflect it this time around, perhaps even counter-hex him with ease. He didn't, Neville thought to himself adamantly, want to hurt Malfoy. Not even if Malfoy had been the torment of their early years. Neville was worth twelve of him, and he wasn't helping him because he felt he had to. He was doing it because he knew he should.

Which brought Neville to another train of thought; he still didn't know what to tell his grandmother. Even if Neville trusted Malfoy enough to believe that he (probably) wasn't lying when he said that he wasn't a Death Eater or wasn't going to endanger their family, Neville didn't think that his grandmother would be so forgiving.

"I hope your superior breeding will allow you to sleep on my floor," Neville said, "because we don't have a spare room. Even if we did, I don't think Gran will take kindly to you being here, Malfoy, so you're going to have to stay hidden up here."

"Are you serious?" Malfoy sounded extremely unhappy at this prospect.

"You could always leave if that's not going to work for you…"

"All right, all right," Malfoy hissed. He sank to the ground, looking miserable. "Suppose anything's better than sleeping on a bed of dirt. Or under one. Give me a blanket."

Neville rolled the top blanket from his bed up and passed it to Draco, who wrapped it around himself nearly completely. He looked absurd and small, like a blonde burrito; Neville stifled a chuckle and turned away, glancing at his desk briefly before he waved his wand at his letter and quill, murmuring a spell to clear them away until he could continue writing. Malfoy glowered at him before laying across the floor and turning the other direction.

"D'you want a pillow?" Neville asked, and tossed one over anyway when he was met with silence. He was perfectly fine with Malfoy sulking in the corner if that's what he wanted -- the less conversation the better, as far as Neville was concerned. He turned away as well, fiddling with his robe buttons. He fumbled them, strangely self-conscious although he couldn't identify why; he'd undressed in front of plenty of other people before, in his history sharing a room with three other boys at Hogwarts.

Frustrated by the feeling, he forced himself to rush his way through it, hanging his robes up and stripping himself of his undershirt before he slid his pajamas on. He stepped out into the hall and wished his grandmother goodnight before he closed the door on them.

"Nice trousers, Longbottom," Malfoy said from his corner. Neville glowered, ears burning again -- he'd had a growth spurt both at the beginning of the year and at the end of the last, resulting in his pajama trousers being too short for him by almost half a foot. He noticed it so little he'd forgotten about it until now.

"Shut it, Malfoy," he muttered, slipping into his bed quickly to hide his ankles. Why was Malfoy watching him? Neville rested his burning face against his pillow and kept still; neither of them said anything more that night.

✻

When Draco awoke the next morning there was a modest platter of food beside him: a small bowl of porridge, a bread roll, and bacon. He sat up, looking for Neville but it was empty aside for him.

"What a joke," he said out loud, talking about either the mediocre breakfast or his situation entire. He wasn't sure. He plucked up a strip of bacon and shoved it in his mouth whole as he stood to inspect Neville's room more closely.

Yellow walls. Red bedspread. Tacky, but expected. Draco suspected Longbottom and his grandmother must have been so shocked he'd wound up a Gryffindor that they'd redecorated immediately before anyone could change their mind. There was a Quidditch poster, some photographs, and a letter or two mounted to the walls, a bookshelf along the far wall, and Longbottom's Hogwarts things were piled unceremoniously in a corner. A tank rested on his trunk with Neville's ancient-looking toad inside it.

He wandered over to the photographs lined on the walls, and was unsurprised to see Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Luna Lovegood. He scowled at them and they all scowled back save for Lovegood, who waved to him airily. Another had a group of students that Draco recognized (vaguely) as Hufflepuffs; the one called Macmillan made a rude gesture at him, which Draco gladly made back. The last one he knew was of Longbottom's parents, and he turned from the wall quickly before looking at it as if he knew he shouldn't. He _did_ know he shouldn't. All of the Death Eaters knew who the Longbottoms were.

He didn't belong here. Everyone in the pictures knew it, Neville knew it, and of course Draco knew it. He felt like a fangless snake seeking refuge in a bird's nest, still expected to devour the eggs. Maybe he had always been hard on Longbottom… cruel, even, but… it had all been harmless. Neville had just been a target for Draco to vent his frustrations with the rest of the Gryffindors on.

Thinking about it, Draco supposed he should feel sorry about that. He felt _something_ , at least, though he couldn't tell if it was guilt. He rubbed his wrists anxiously. He had enjoyed how powerful it made him feel, tormenting Longbottom and watching the fear and anguish explode across his face -- he'd been a boy obsessed. As a child, Draco had imagined that was the same sort of sadistic thrill his father had gotten in Voldemort's heyday. But it wasn't as if his bullying had stopped Neville growing into something respectable, now was it?

Still, in retrospect it was a wonder Longbottom didn't hate him more. Had the positions been reversed Draco would have never let Neville stay with him. Years later, standing there, Draco wasn't even sure why he'd fixated so narrowly on antagonizing Longbottom. Because it was easy? The other three Gryffindors had earned a different sort of fixation.

He brushed the thought away, not liking it. Why? Obviously because it was easy, Longbottom had been practically a walking target. If anything sometimes he'd seemed like he was messing up in front of Malfoy on _purpose_ so that Draco could make his well-timed snide remark.

Why else?

Distractedly, Draco put another piece of bacon in his mouth, picking up his robes from the floor and pulling them over his shoulders to button.

"Malfoy? Are you up?" Neville's voice carried from behind him, and Draco turned mid-button to see him standing in the doorway.

"Obviously. Do you mind?"

Neville didn't turn. "You barely ate anything."

"Wasn't hungry. What's it to you?" Draco finished with his buttons, adopting his surly demeanor again. "I just asked for a place to stay, that doesn't mean you need to take care of me."

"You still need to eat," Neville said blithely, pointing to the tray he'd left that morning. Draco wrinkled his nose. The words 'make me' were on his tongue, but he realized that Longbottom probably would. He sat, petulantly, and took a bite out of the biscuit. Sated, Neville crossed the room and sat down at his desk, murmuring _Accio, parchment_ and _accio, quill and ink_ , under his breath. The items flew at him from another corner of the room -- Malfoy had to duck his head so that he wasn't beaned by the inkwell.

"Is that the letter you were writing to Lovegood?" Draco asked, taking another bite. He'd seen it on his first sweep of the room and of course he'd read it. "Is she even still in England?"

"Did you--" Neville turned and leveled a glare at Draco, who simply smirked in response. "I didn't say you could read my mail," he said angrily.

"You left it out." Draco shrugged, finishing his biscuit in two last bites. "I'm not surprised you'd fancy her. Someone would _have_ to be mad to like you back."

"We're only friends," Neville said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. Something stirred in Draco's chest, tight and twisted, causing him to press on.

"So, you really _do_ fancy her? _Loony?_ I was right, you really haven't changed. Should have figured you'd be the one to go loopy for the nutjob."

"Why do you care?" Neville snapped. "She's pureblood, after all, isn't that all that matters to you?"

"It -- no, it's not," Malfoy sputtered, surprised, cheeks coloring. He recovered quickly. "Even among pureblood there are standards -- need I mention the Weasleys?"

"You're unbelievable," Neville said. "You really haven't changed at all. You're still a hateful… mean… Death Eater bully looking for people to pick on. That's all that matters to you! Feeling big!"

"Don't tell me what matters to me, Longbottom!"

"Prove me wrong, Malfoy!"

Suddenly they were standing inches apart, chests nearly touching. Draco's cheeks felt hot, but he could see Neville's were also flushed with color. He could also see Neville was taller than him by about an inch -- maybe even an inch and a half. Draco squared his shoulders back.

"Why? I've got nothing to prove." His jaw clenched. "Anyway, disliking mudbloods doesn't make someone a Death Eater."

"No… but that does." Neville pointed to Draco's left wrist.

Although it was covered by the sleeve of his robes Draco flinched and took a step back, clutching his wrist protectively. He dropped his eyes, hating the anger, fear, and shame the reminder of that tattoo gave him. He hated the thought of having it on his arm forever, branded with the memory of his failure to end his family's entrapment.

"If you know what's good for you you won't mention that again," he muttered. When he looked up again Neville was frowning, although he also looked concerned, like he knew he'd struck a nerve he hadn't intended to. Draco realized Longbottom probably hadn't known he had an actual Dark Mark until this moment. "I'm not one. I'm not a Death Eater."

Neville's nose wrinkled, though he didn't say anything in response immediately. He stepped away from Draco and toward the door. "I think I'm going to make some tea," he muttered. Draco found himself following, not wanting to be left alone in this room full of eyes.

"I'll help you."

"I know how to make a pot of tea, Malfoy," Neville said without turning, though he didn't argue with Draco coming along. When they arrived downstairs into the kitchen Draco just sat himself down and let Longbottom take care of the actual preparation, glancing over to watch now and then. Malfoy _didn't_ know how to make tea; his mother or their house-elf had always brought it to him, warm, already milked and honeyed properly.

He wondered if that was unusual, or if Longbottom was because he'd grown up without his parents to make tea for him.

"Here," Neville said, passing Draco a cup. The smell made Draco grimace. The tea seemed watery and over-sugared… no, that might have even been _sweetener_ , with only a dollop of cream to thicken it. Was this how poor people took their tea, he wondered? Not that the Longbottoms were poor, _per se_ , they were certainly no Weasleys…

Biting back his criticisms, Draco forced himself to take a sip. Neville took a chair beside him and took a sip of his own; they sat there in relative silence for several minutes.

✻

Anger was still rather fresh in Neville's mind as he swallowed his tea, trying hard not to glare at Malfoy as he drank. He didn't even begrudge the boy his Dark Mark much -- although Neville hadn't known about it, not for sure, he and his friends had certainly suspected as much. Justin Finch-Fletchley had told him at the end of their sixth year, once tensions had sky-rocketed and before he'd been forced to leave the school, that he had no doubts the Death Eaters would be recruiting right from Hogwarts if You-Know-Who was back. Malfoy was looking shiftier lately, wasn't he?

He was angrier that Draco had dared bring Luna Lovegood into this. He didn't want to hear her name insulted by, if not a Death Eater, at least a sadistic, thuggish wannabe. Luna hadn't been Neville's girlfriend -- far from it, though he _had_ fancied her -- but he had grown close to her in their fifth year and since, despite his initial discomfort upon meeting her. He'd meant no malice by it; her eccentricity had reminded him at first of his hospitalized family. Once he'd dissociated from that, he'd grown to more than appreciate her eccentricity for what it was.

His chest clenched defensively, but he sipped his tea calmly, looking over at Malfoy, who was holding his cup in both hands and sulking into it. Nearly every time Neville looked at him he seemed to be sulking.

"What's the story with your mum and dad?" He asked, carefully. Draco glanced up, then back down into his cup, seeming to debate whether or not to say anything about them.

"… My family has no one they can trust. They don't know if any of the Death Eaters will still be active now that You-Know-Who's gone… they could, you know, still carry out his ideas, or something the like if they wanted to. My mother and father want nothing to do with it anymore. But any of them might kill them just as soon as look at them."

Draco sounded as if he was covering up some genuine concern; Neville, for his part, couldn't bring himself to feel much sympathy. A part of him did, just for a moment, but the feeling, like many of the other things Draco had said since arriving, made Neville angry more than anything. After all Malfoy's family had done, what right did his family have to worry about Death Eaters like anyone else might? Like they weren't any different from all the families who had hid, who had fought and died for what they believed in, or been tortured until their minds could no longer grasp rational thought, while the Malfoys and their friends had shot the Dark Mark into the sky?

"That goes for about everyone." His voice was cold, but a little heavier with emotion than he'd meant it. "None of us want You-Know-Who back in any capacity, him or his Death Eaters. Me… if they come, I'm going to fight. I'm _still_ fighting… I won't let any Death Eaters attack my family or my friends again," said Neville, fully expecting some biting retort from Malfoy about being a pathetic, idealistic child or a whiny blood traitor. To his surprise, Malfoy merely scowled and leaned his head back.

"Guess that's right… it is an awful shame about your parents, Longbottom," he said, and Neville couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Suppose you probably deserve to have them there with you more than I do mine."

Neville's ears burned in the uncomfortable silence following. Malfoy's tone was still derisive, annoyed; it was impossible to know if he was being serious or not, or what to say in response. He opened his mouth as Draco turned to look at him.

"Well? Isn't that what you wanted to say? Honestly. You think I haven't heard it all before? You Gryffindors were always a smug lot."

"Smug? _Smug?_ It's you Slytherins who always tried to act bigger than you were! Throwing your weight around like your parents being murderers was some kind of… badge of honor!"

"So how does it feel, then," Malfoy drawled, "to know that Bellatrix Lestrange is dead? She's one of the ones that did it to your parents, isn't that right? I'm half-surprised you didn't end her yourself, since you apparently can swing a sword now without gutting yourself. If I were you that's what I would have done… but then again… if I were you, I'd be _you…"_

"You think I didn't want to?!" Neville almost shouted, even to his own surprise. His face was flushed with color, chest cramping unhappily against the swell of emotion that had suddenly burst within him. His eyes stung. "Don't you think I wanted to be the one to stop her finally, for good? I _did_ … more than anything--!"

Draco was watching him; Neville could feel it even though he couldn't look at him. His chest tightened more. Every moment since the war he'd thought about Bellatrix, how he could have pursued her but didn't. Had he been too cowardly? Too afraid for himself that he might freeze up when the moment came? He'd run it over through his head constantly, never getting any answers. Gran had told him his parents wouldn't want him to become a murderer on their account, and he didn't disbelieve her.

But it didn't feel like a good enough reason. It didn't do anything to extinguish the pain he'd felt then, from being denied that closure.

"Just as well," Malfoy interjected. "Not like she isn't dead anyway. Glad to be rid of her, quite honestly, aunt or not. She always gave me the creeps."

Neville said nothing. Draco was quiet, as if waiting, but then he spoke again.

"I was supposed to kill Dumbledore," he said. Neville's eyebrows raised. "That year. It was supposed to be me."

"And… so… wait, you--"

"I couldn't do it," he muttered. "Obviously. It's not so… it's the same, in the end." He shoved aside his tea, crossing one arm over the other. Neville noticed he rubbed his left arm through the sleeve.

"Malfoy--"

Before Neville could figure out what he wanted to say, he heard the front door click, and filched. His grandmother must have been home, and he remembered that she still didn't know a Death Eater's son was staying under their roof in her grandson's own room. He turned to Draco, feeling a bit ill. "You've got to apparate upstairs -- hurry," he said, a little frantically. Draco glanced toward the hall skeptically, but he complied, disappearing with a _crack_. Neville dropped his cup on the floor.

"Neville? What was that noise?" Augusta Longbottom asked sharply, stepping into the kitchen. Neville, mildly flustered, pointed downward.

"Nothing, Gran, just dropped my tea," he said, then added quickly: "I was just headed upstairs. I have a letter I want to finish."

"All right," she said briskly, looking a bit perturbed that his clumsiness might be returning full-swing. She waved her wand to clean the tea cup shards and liquid from the floor. "Supper's in an hour, you'll be helping me making it. I want us to make some extra to take in to your parents tomorrow."

"How were they?" Neville asked, as he approached the staircase. "After I left, I mean."

"Same as always," Augusta said, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry I--"

"I understand, Neville. We'll see them again tomorrow. They won't really remember what happened, I'm too sure. Not like you or I would."

Although he could have apparated, Neville ascended the stairs normally, preferring to spend this time between destinations -- Gran at the bottom of the stairs, Malfoy at the top -- by himself.

They'd gone to visit his parents at St. Mungo's earlier that day for the first time since the war had ended, while Malfoy'd still been asleep. When he was there, Neville had been suddenly overcome with a wave of relief, guilt, and renewed affection seeing them again after he'd known their attacker was dead, stronger than any other he'd ever known. He'd wanted to cry, to hug them, to call them 'mum' and 'dad' and they still hadn't known his name; he'd realized Bellatrix Lestrange's death made no damn difference at all. The spell, as it were, would never be broken.

The urge to vomit then had overtaken all his other emotional impulses -- he almost had, right there on the hospital floor (and admittedly, St. Mungo's was probably the best place to be suddenly ill). For the first time ever he'd excused himself from the visit early.

Miserably he let himself back into his room, unfocused. His eyes met the smiling faces of the Gryffindor trio in the photograph on his wall, then skated lower to meet the aggressive grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. Both of them looked askance immediately.

✻

As evening fell on Draco's second night at the Longbottoms' house he drew himself into Neville's blanket again. His face felt dry, his hair clumped and sweaty against his forehead; he needed a shower but was absolutely loathe to ask Longbottom if he could use his.

He heard the scratching of Longbottom's quill against the parchment of his letter and felt a surge of annoyance that he couldn't pinpoint. He couldn't fathom what someone would see in Luna Lovegood; she seemed like the kind of person who didn't know enough to put on matching shoes in the morning, let alone hold a conversation. Crabbe and Goyle Draco had at least not expected any smarts from.

The scratching sounds continued, prickling him more and more as he sat there listening. Finally, he'd had enough. "Longbottom," he said abruptly, "where is your bathroom?" Neville glanced over at him.

"Um -- third door left, down the hallway," he said. Draco stood, kicking his blanket off and stomping out of the room. He left the lights off so as not to alert Neville's grandmother, pulling out his mother's wand instead.

" _Lumos,_ " he murmured, following the glow at the end of his wand. He found the room and slid into it, stripping off his robes in the dark and groping for the shower handles. He propped the wand up so that he could see enough not to trip, then quickly submerged himself in a stream of cold water. He shivered under it, his teeth clicked together, but he didn't touch the knob again until twenty minutes later when he turned it off. His eyes stung as he got redressed.

Holding his mother's wand wasn't comforting; it felt wrong, clammy in hand. It didn't understand him anymore than Longbottom did, and it just reminded Draco more of the family waiting for him somewhere in the undisclosed future. It reminded him how alone he'd felt the past four years, denied any connection with his father until the bitter moment came when Lucius had been jailed and Draco had to prove himself a worthy replacement.

And he'd failed.

They were supposed to be okay _now_. Why weren't they? Why did the world seem to be fixing itself for everyone but him?

" _Nox._ " The wand's light flickered off before he let himself back into Neville's room and re-cocooned himself in his blanket, leaning against Neville's bed for support. The lights were off in there, too, but he was almost positive Neville was just as awake as he was. Draco could hear him breathing, ragged and quiet. Good, he thought, blinking hard. If Longbottom was feeling sorry for himself he'd be too preoccupied to hear Draco's own erratic breaths.

Or perhaps not.

"Malfoy?" Neville asked into the darkness. Draco waited a long moment before answering, his voice tight.

"What is it?"

"Are you thinking about your parents?"

Draco took another breath. "I don't think that's your business, Longbottom."

Neville was quiet. Draco could hear him shifting, sitting up in his bed. His legs slid over the side, brushing Draco's shoulder. "You don't have to be so aggressive all the time. It's normal, to… be worried for your family. If you care about them."

"I want to be with them," Draco snapped, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't care the danger. It doesn't matter, does it? We could go anywhere, leave London completely or something… everyone says You-Know-Who being gone was supposed to make everything better, fat load of--"

"It's going to take time," Neville interrupted, though not rudely. "There's a lot we're going to have to fix ourselves. But we can't fix all of it."

"What happened to you, anyway?" Draco was almost incredulous, though he was genuinely curious. "What changed, Longbottom? A few years ago you would have wet your pants if you saw me at your door. I almost miss that."

"Boy, you really can't stand having something in common, can you? Everyone grows up," he said. "I guess I outgrew you."

"We have _nothing_ in _common_. Don't say that! My parents are still--" _Sane_ , Draco almost said, but he stopped himself. "… Is that why you let me stay here? You _outgrew_ me? Don't make me laugh. You're the softest wizard there ever was. I bet you're even softer without all that blubber to protect you."

"Bet you they're okay," said Neville. Draco swallowed.

"How'd you figure that?" He asked, resting his head against Neville's leg. He was annoyed that his distraction techniques weren't working; Longbottom was supposed to be too flustered to keep up conversation by now. "Huh?"

"I can't exactly picture Malfoys getting themselves killed now that the war's over."

Draco wrinkled his nose, though he didn't move. "Save your sympathy," he hissed. Neville touched his head -- just for a moment, a brief sweep across Malfoy's hair -- before he pulled his legs back into the bed. In their absence Draco moved quickly away, hiding his face in his blanket.

"Don't worry about that," Neville said quietly, stiffly. "I don't feel sorry for any of you."

✻

Neville was up first again the next morning. He didn't get up immediately, laying quietly in his bed and watching the ceiling, thinking. He felt annoyed all the time since Malfoy had got here, and the occasional moments of pity he felt for Draco didn't help. Neville wanted nothing more than to hate him, but he couldn't seem to manage it.

Draco was callous, rude, mean, insensitive, and nearly impossible to understand. He'd tormented Neville on a near daily basis in their early years at Hogwarts, obsessively, to the point where Neville had sometimes had nightmares about Draco sneaking up behind him and had constantly found himself over-thinking his behavior, his habits, wondering if Malfoy would see and take notice. Having him in the same room brought that feeling back, sometimes -- Neville kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for a wand to wave and leave him dangling upside down by his ankle.

On the other hand, Neville knew Draco had changed since they were eleven, twelve, just as Neville himself had. He hadn't been responsible for Colin Creevey, or Fred Weasley, or Professor Lupin any more than Neville had been responsible for Bellatrix Lestrange.

 _It's the same, in the end._

It was. Bellatrix was dead, no matter who it was what killed her. Alice and Frank Longbottom were still in St. Mungo's. As they always would be. They would always love Neville just the same, the stranger who kept them company and told them stories. He pressed his hand to his face, shivering, mouth tasting of copper.

He had been too young to feel fear for himself, or for them, during the first war. He wondered, had he not been, would he have felt the way Draco felt right now? He didn't want to cry as Draco had against his leg, not with someone else in the room. Neville didn't mock him, but he knew Malfoy would have if the positions were reversed.

Well -- he hadn't, though, when he'd come back into the room the night before. They'd both been aware of the other, then. Neville frowned, glancing over at Draco on the floor. Draco looked back, awake.

"You don't always watch me sleep, do you?" He asked, sneering. Neville looked away sheepishly.

"Sorry," he said. "I was only thinking."

"About what?"

"You," said Neville. "I can't really figure out why I don't hate you when I know I probably should."

Draco snorted. "Maybe you know you ought to thank me. If it weren't for me, you probably would never have grown yourself a spine... I was helping you along."

"Come off it," Neville said with mild irritation, but also amusement. "If I have you to thank for anything it might be my loathing for snakes." He sat up.

"Hungry?"

Draco sat up also. "Are you going to get m-- us food?"

"I'd rather Gran not catch u-- me, I just want to make it quick," Neville said, eyebrows furrowing. He was nervous about what she might say to him in the light of morning, what they might have to talk about concerning his parents. After tottering on the edge of a shuddering breakdown thinking about them these past few days he wasn't sure he was up for it. His nerves were constantly on edge as it was.

He apparated downstairs and gathered some toast and butter for them, along with fruit, before reappearing in his room. Malfoy had moved and Neville stumbled over him, falling over backwards onto the floor with a hard twist to his back.

"Watch it!" Draco snapped, snatching at an apple before it hit the floor and bruised. "Oaf! Can't you do anything right?"

"You got in my way!" Neville sat up, legs sprawled over Draco's. "That's all you do! Isn't it? Get in everyone's way! I -- you know, I let you stay here because you told me you'd changed, but all you've done is be mean, and dismissi--"

"All _you've_ been is a bloody self-righteous _pain_ who can't stop feeling sorry himself for ten seconds--"

They both realized they were standing chest to chest once more, reaching for wands they weren't holding. Neville pushed back his shoulders, still taller than the blonde. It was already different from their earlier row, somehow -- both of them were far tenser, far more volatile. All their annoyances and frustrations spilled out in an angry and extremely loud cascade.

"YOUR MUM AND DAD ARE ALL RIGHT! THEY'RE OUT THERE AND THEY'RE OKAY AND YOU GUYS WILL ALL BE A FAMILY AGAIN ONCE THIS IS OVER! DO YOU EVEN _UNDERSTAND_ THAT, YOU--"

"THEY COULD BE KILLED, LONGBOTTOM!" Draco shrieked, cheeks suddenly red. He shoved Neville's shoulder, who stared back at him agape. "I'M HERE BECAUSE THEY WANT ME ALIVE! I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR PARENTS, DO YOU THINK I WANT THAT?"

"THAT'D INVOLVE YOU CARING ABOUT ANYONE ELSE'S FAMILY BUT YOUR OWN, WOULDN'T I--"

Neville couldn't finish, the strength behind his words dissolving the moment Draco mashed his face against Neville's chest, shoulders shuddering with his breath. It was like the wind was knocked out of him.

"I'm worried about them, you idiot, I can't d-do anything to help them…"

Neville's own eyes pricked, stung, and although he tried to speak he just took in a breath and hid his own face against Draco's hair.

"I know," he said, miserably, "I shouldn't -- I'm sorry, Malfoy, but I can't stop thinking about my -- it w-was your _aunt_ , for Merlin's sake, I can't just-- you've never seen someone like that, there's n-nothing--"

"I thought you'd understand," Draco said into Neville's pajamas, one arm snaked to clutch Neville's back. "Because -- you're so bloody -- you are kind," he continued, begrudgingly. "You still let me stay with you and I've called you a fat, pitiful waste for years."

"I thought you were taking advantage of me again," Neville admitted, moving his face from Draco's hair. He kneaded one eye with his hand. Draco looked up at him, leaning close, but Neville glanced away. "We're fighting for the same thing now, aren't we?"

He touched Draco's arm; Draco flinched, and they both stepped back from each other, suddenly self-conscious. The sudden burst of anger had both of their hearts racing uncomfortably.

"I have toast," Neville said abruptly, though the pieces had fallen on his -- or was it Draco's? -- blanket. "And there should be butter… somewhere…"

"Here," Draco said, holding up the dish which had surprisingly not overturned, though an orange had landed on it.

✻

Once Longbottom had left with his grandmother to St. Mungo's, Draco this time let himself wander the house. The portraits on the walls still looked at him as if he were an outsider, but quizzically now instead of with hostility. Instead of glowering back, Draco peered closer to see if he knew anyone, though he withdrew from the picture when he recognized Professors Lupin and Dumbledore, his aunt Andromeda, Wormtail, two people who had to be Harry Potter's parents, and two that Draco presumed were Neville's -- looking at it made him feel sick. He strode further down the hallway.

The house, though not small, was considerably smaller than Malfoy's own home and took him very little time to walk through; made quicker because he'd seen nothing that particularly held his attention. It was a home, simple as, though a lot warmer (not temperature-wise) than what Draco was used to. There were plants everywhere. The damn place seemed to be crawling with them. It added an eccentric charm, some might say, but Draco couldn't help but shiver when some crawling ivy tried to crawl its way down his neck.

As he made his way through the kitchen his attention was caught by an awful scratching noise.

"What th--"

He looked and there was an owl, a large grey-white Barred owl pecking angrily at the window. Draco hesitated to walk over, but the owl showed no sign of letting up. It pecked once more to leave behind a small snowflake of a crack in the glass, and Draco flung the window open to let it in.

It circled the room, swooping right over his head as it flew by -- he yelped, ducking and protecting his hair -- before it landed on Draco's shoulder and impatiently jutting out its leg. Warily, he took the letter from it and the owl swooped away, hitting him in the face with a wing before it rested on the windowsill.

"Filthy bird," Draco spat after it. He dropped the letter onto the Longbottoms's table before realized it was sealed closed with a green insignia, _D_ written below darkly. He tore it open.

 _Our letter must be brief, but we are safe now and so must you be. Owl back immediately to confirm you got our message and we will collect you where we drop you off._

 _Best wishes._

There was no signature, nor initials, but Draco knew who it was from. Hastily he dug up a quill and scrawled a return message below:

 _M & D _

_Safe yes with good family. Please be well. Don't reply back, I will leave at evening._

Writing so truncated and awkwardly came unnaturally to Draco, but he knew his parents feared interception. Not that, to Draco, there was much of a risk of that anymore, but in the post-war paranoid atmosphere nothing was impossible. 'Where we drop you off' must refer to King's Cross; he could apparate over there easily, but he wasn't ready to leave just yet.

He hid the letter in his robe pocket, and spent the rest of the afternoon in Neville's room. He touched the windows, the shelves, the photographs, Trevor. Sat on Longbottom's bed and regretted (briefly) the hell he'd put someone who was actually rather decent -- at least kind, even to his enemies -- through those years. A Leg-Locker curse was no Cruciatus, but he doubted the thought behind it was much different. He lay down the length of the bed, thinking about what Longbottom had said the other day about things they had in common, or what he'd said today about what they both were fighting for.

At some point Neville joined him, sitting beside him. Draco glanced over, then to the window; it was already dark. He'd been lost in thought for some time.

"I'm leaving tonight," he said. "My parents wrote. I can join them now."

Neville looked briefly surprised, before the expression left his face. He frowned, then nodded. "Good. That's what you wanted, right? Lucky it got straightened out so soon."

"Yeah. I'm sure they were madly worried. I told them I had a _good_ family to stay with," Draco said, smirking. "Meaning a pureblood, of course, ease their fears about me staying with a mud-- muggle-born family…"

Neville touched his hand, idly. Draco glanced down, seeing the knuckles brush his own, but said nothing. Neville moved his hand after a few more moments had passed.

"How are you leaving -- by portkey? Or broom?"

"Apparating. I can leave any time," Draco said breezily. Neville nodded again.

"Now, I suppose," he said, looking up at Draco again. "You'll want to see them."

Draco only nodded in response. Neville lowered his eyes and chewed on his thumbnail.

"When you said it was all the same in the end, people being dead and all -- d'you mean it? Yes, right? It's okay that I didn't kill Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Your parents are revenged no matter what," Draco said, lips pressed tight. "She is dead and isn't as if you played any small part getting at You-Know-Who."

Neville nodded wordlessly. "Every time I see them it's been hard, since, somehow I'd thought, if I -- I know it's silly, but maybe they'd be okay again, if I was… if it were me. But…"

"That's absolutely stupid," Draco said. Neville peered at him. "… That it would be your fault, Longbottom. They can't be fixed like that."

"It _is_ stupid," Neville agreed, to Draco's surprise. "I suppose I can't stop thinking that it's my fault somehow. I envy you a bit, Malfoy. I just wish I could have known them."

"Yes. They could have taught you proper spell-casting, rather than the baboonish wand-waving you tried to pass off as magic at Hogwarts." Draco stood, and Neville stared after him incredulously. He chuckled it off after a moment, ears red.

"You're still unbelievable," he said. They looked at each other. "If you… er, suppose if you wind up needing a place to stay again, I can put in a word with Gran next time… if you give me some notice first." Neville rubbed his cheek.

"Doubt I'll have any need for it," Draco said after a moment, tilting his head up pompously. "But I'll pass on the invitation. Meantime…"

He wanted to say something smug, but none of the words fit together with what he knew he had to say. "Er… thanks," he said finally. "I owe you."

"No you don't. Rather -- please, don't, owe me one. I don't think I could handle your favors," Neville stammered, stepping away for a moment. "Actually--"

He disappeared into his closet for a moment, then came out with a large flowering plant that reminded Malfoy of the one had encountered earlier for its snaking tendrils; the petals parted animatedly, feelers slipping out to seek the sun. Neville looked a tad embarrassed.

"Could you plant this for me? It's getting too large for me to keep anymore. It was a gift from Hannah Abbott and I've been taking care of it since nearly the beginning, but it doesn't take to the soils around here…"

Draco reached for it. "Fine," he said. "Then we're even."

"You can still stay," Neville said again. "If you ever need to."

Draco brushed his mussed hair behind his ear. "I'm sure my family's made lasting arrangements." He nodded anyway, as if humoring Neville. Bizarrely a part of him _wanted_ to accept the invitation, though he had no need for it. Circumstances could always change, he supposed.

"Surely. I'm glad for you, getting to go with them."

"Enough already, you're making me sick," Draco said sourly, smiling crookedly but hiding it by turning. "I guess we'll see each other around. Once things settle we'll both be in London, after all."

And he disapparated, not wanting to see Neville's expression as he left or hear what he might say in response. Rather, he just wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible, staying in that house seemed to have messed with his head, gotten under his skin perhaps in an infectious, diseased sort of way. He'd felt, for a brief disgusting moment, that if Longbottom had asked him to stay another night, he might have actually agreed.


End file.
